


Speaking in Tongues

by feelslikefire



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, BDSM, Butt Plugs, Come Shot, D/s, Dubious Consent, Enemas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Torture, Sensory Deprivation, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-28
Updated: 2010-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:13:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelslikefire/pseuds/feelslikefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Spock became Emperor, the first thing he did was claim James Tiberius Kirk as his slave, body and mind. But Kirk, being Kirk, has serious trouble with authority, and Spock is pressured by his advisors to discipline his former captain. Permanently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speaking in Tongues

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a birthday present for [joannaestep](http://joannaestep.tumblr.com/), originally posted [here](http://the-castle.livejournal.com/11879.html). Beta'd by the lovely [latenightarting](http://latenightarting.livejournal.com/), joannaestep, and [snowlight](http://snowlight.livejournal.com/). Illustration at the end was done by the immensely talented and generous [latenightarting](http://latenightarting.livejournal.com/). See end of story for glossary of terms used.

_"I had thought, foolishly, that you were above such a juvenile prank as this." The massive granite doors swing shut behind the Emperor's aides with a hollow boom, leaving the two of them alone. Spock stands in the doorway, robes miraculously dry, long dark hair immaculate, his face as impassive as if carved from ice, and for the first time today Kirk is afraid. He can't so much as move a muscle, though, chained to the table as he is. He can only watch as Spock approaches him, the malice in those bottomless eyes making the hair on the back of Kirk's neck try to crawl away and hide. "An error that I shall be certain to rectify."_

The vision—memory—dissolves into darkness as another spasm wracks his body, and James Kirk chokes, thrashing uselessly against the restraints that hold him in place. His ass feels like it's positively on fire, the burn spreading up and in through inflamed muscle tissue, making him tremble uncontrollably, the plug nestled inside him jostled with every strained, aborted movement of his hips. Spots appear in front of his eyes, like raindrops on a window-pane, but of course it's all illusion. Kirk has had ample time over the past few months to learn the ins and outs of his own brain—being the slave of a powerful and relentless telepath gets you well-acquainted with your own brain real fast—but he doesn't think he's ever learned the true meaning of _agony_ until today.

He doesn't know how long he's been here. The Emperor's aides dragged him here, stripped him naked and left him in chains to await his master's convenience, but even though Kirk had _expected_ to be punished for his prank, he somehow hadn't dreamed it could be this bad. He keeps hoping the pain will eclipse his body's tolerance and he'll just pass out, that unconsciousness will take him, but the warming lube that Spock smeared all over the plug that's now in Kirk's ass is relentless. It burns, it hurts, it makes him want to itch and squirm and claw his own skin off to make it better, but he's utterly immobile, chained to a table at hips, throat, hands, and feet on his back in complete darkness. The itching  & burning comes in waves, as if his overstimulated nerves simply can't handle the constant pummel of sensation and shut off, but every time Kirk thinks maybe the stuff is actually wearing off, or he's getting used to it, and maybe he'll be able to pass out and get some relief, a new assault of red fire will hit him and he's in ruins all over again, sobbing and twitching pointlessly against his bonds, his self-control a thing of the past.

No. No, he's better than this. Kirk draws a ragged breath, sucking cool air past chapped and bitten lips, eyes clamped tightly shut. He's served seven years in Starfleet, rising steadily through the ranks till he was captain of his own ship; he's survived sabotage by mutineers, abandonment on planets of molten lava and asteroids little more than ice and dust; he's outwitted, out-maneuvered, and out-thought superiors, adversaries, and comrades alike, and always, always the victory was his to claim. It took all the resources of the Empire to outflank him at the last, and just because Spock's got his royal panties in a fucking knot over what Kirk personally thinks was a funny (if perhaps childish) prank does _not_ mean that Kirk will give him the satisfaction of getting the reaction he wants from Kirk. Kirk shifts, drawing another careful breath, willing his aching muscles to unclench, not wanting to set off another spasm; the burn seems on the downward swing for now. It's hard to be sure, but Kirk judges that this has already gone on longer than most punishments he's endured of Spock's—and none of them have ever been this ridiculously over-the-top, all out of proportion with the crime. Fuck.

Capsaicin. That's what's in the oil, Kirk thinks. Like the chili peppers back on Earth, and a few other planets scattered across the wide galaxy. Why the fuck such a thing _exists_ in oil form is beyond Kirk's comprehension, though he vaguely recalls hearing McCoy discuss a type of capsaicin cream once that was supposed to be useful for treating chronic pain. Which doesn't matter, seeing as what Kirk is enduring is the _opposite_ of pain relief. Kirk grits his teeth, another wave of indignation rolling through him as he reviews the unfairness of the situation—but of course it's fucking unfair, which is the whole goddamn point. Admiral James T. Kirk of the ISS Enterprise was a feared and well-respected man, in command of the Emperor's most prized flagship. Now he's a glorified sex-slave, ostensibly yeoman to his lying, double-crossing, pointy-eared, very much _former_ First Officer, the collar around his neck a visible sign of his enslavement. Kirk still doesn't understand how, when he'd done everything right, anticipated absolutely every contingency, planned for every worst-case scenario, that this has still somehow happened to him. 

He doesn't know if Spock is nearby or not. For all he knows, Spock only stuck around for a little while to watch the show, then took off to deal with the fall-out of Kirk's little programming joke. He _is_ the Emperor now, after all. Which is of course why he's being pressured to choose a consort, the better to provide royal heirs for his throne. It was fifteen minutes into the full ceremonial gathering of all eligible females and their family members, as well as all the members of the Vulcan Imperial Court, that Kirk's carefully-hidden program executed its code, simultaneously overloading every water main in the Imperial palace and drenching almost everyone in the building. It had taken weeks of working on the program in the few precious moments a day when he was unsupervised, hunched over the secretly-augmented PADD he'd been given to keep track of his obnoxious, mundane tasks, and he'd miss that, because he surely wouldn't even be permitted that commodity now, but at the time he'd thought it more than worth it. Spock of all people should have known any electronic device in Kirk's possession wouldn't stay harmless, no matter how carefully encrypted it had been before being given to him. Locked safely away back in the antechamber of Spock's quarters, Kirk could almost hear the yowls and hisses of displeasure as over a thousand Vulcans received an unexpected shower—Vulcans as a race are, of course, far too dignified to make any such noises, but the desert-bred warriors hate water almost as much as cats back on old Earth. And while Kirk did not care to examine his motivations for his sabotage too closely, he didn't require much self-awareness to enjoy knowing how many Vulcans he must have pissed off with that stunt. 

...Including Spock, obviously. Kirk's throat tightens in anger as he thinks of Spock. That he should be forced to endure this misery because some Vulcans got a little damp is utterly ridiculous—especially when Kirk knows damn well that Spock was reluctant to go through with this dog-and-pony show in the first place, no matter how unwilling to admit it his tight-ass Imperial self was. Bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. Spock can act distant and bored all he wants (and _God_ does he ever) but Kirk spent too many years in the Vulcan's company back on Enterprise to be fooled. It seems insane to him now, to think that he ever trusted Spock, farther than Kirk had ever trusted anyone, man, woman, or otherwise. How stupid of him, to ever count the Vulcan as a _friend_. But of course that was before—

Something catches his attention, a whisper of air against his cheek. His imagination, or nearby movement? Kirk turns his face, but of course there's nothing there to see; his questing eyes relay nothing back to his frustrated brain. Never mind. Never mind! He's letting his temper get the better of him again. Vengeance will be his, and all in good time. He sucks in another breath, returning to the task of self-discipline, and he must have moved just the wrong way because it sets off a new wave of fiery agony, as what feels like thousands of tiny ants bite down on his insides at the same time, bordering on the exact edge of itchiness and pain. Kirk bites his lip to keep from screaming, and draws a little bit of blood, the copper tang filling his mouth. His muscles ache from the constant barrage of stimulation, and Kirk can't control the second spasm that rolls through him, trying vainly to jiggle the plug in his ass for some small measure of relief. A charlie horse flares in his calf, white-hot pain that shoots straight up in his thigh to his groin, and then Kirk does scream, noiselessly, thrashing against his restraints. It passes again after a few moments, thankfully, and Kirk collapses, tears leaking out of his eyes and down his sightless face at the fresh reminder of his isolation. It's not so bad if he doesn't talk and he keeps his eyes shut, but the minute he tries to speak and hears nothing, he's forced to remember that Spock has struck him blind and deaf.

_"You will beg me for relief, and you will not even know I am near," Spock says. He's staring down at Kirk, strapped prone to the table, the burn in his ass just starting to make itself known. Spock's long hair cascades across Kirk's face from this position, like a heavy, spicy-smelling curtain—Kirk's brain skitters sideways, a slideshow montage of all the times Spock has fucked him with his hair in Kirk's face exactly like this, Kirk bent double, legs over Spock's shoulders, Spock pinning his wrists to the bed, both of them hidden in the curtain of Spock's hair, effectively shutting out the rest of the world. Spock puts his fingers to Kirk's face, breaking Kirk's train of thought. "I shall prize your tears, and your cries. And when this has concluded, you will understand that you are my property. You belong to me."_

_"You're a shitty Vulcan," Kirk tells him, or starts to, because that's when Spock pulls him into the meld. Spock has rolled his mind at least a hundred times or more now, and though Kirk isn't as overwhelmed as he was the first time Spock took him down, he still doesn't have what it takes to fight that psychic undertow. Spock is like some irresistible rip-tide, dragging Kirk under and out to sea to drown in the endless warm darkness of that space inside their minds._

_/ /You are mine,/ / Spock tells him, only there's no actual words, just a sense of possession, of being taken. Ghostly fingers rifle through his mind, giving Kirk the fleeting impression of a piano that's being tuned, a guitar whose strings are being tightened. / /You can have back your sight and your sound when you have shown me that you deserve them./ / Kirk jerks against the sensation of violence, something yanking free deep within his mind, before his world narrows, shuttering and closing in around him like a collapsing house._

_/ /No!/ / he shrieks, and it echoes hollow inside him as Spock abruptly pulls away, fingers leaving his face. He opens his eyes—to nothing. Not even a sense of light or dark or color, only black. He screams, shouting Spock's name, and he can feel the vibrations in his larynx, but no sound reaches his broken ears. "SPOCK! SPOCK DON'T YOU FUCKING DO THIS TO ME—"_

Kirk draws a deep breath, holds it, clenching and unclenching his muscles. In for ten counts, hold for ten, out for ten. In for fifteen counts, hold for fifteen, out for fifteen. Slowly, slowly, the spasms and tremors fade, and then Kirk is encased in endless darkness with only the manufactured noises and images of his own brain to distract him from the endless itching burn inside him, a slow torture that eats away at his sense of self. It's a little like phantom limb pain, the way his brain keeps trying to hear and see when the pathways to both have been sealed off, and Kirk doesn't know which is worse, the hallucinations or the idea of being utterly bereft, as if he had never known sight or sound. His sense of time is now shattered; he no longer has a concept of how long it's been since Spock withdrew his touch, leaving Kirk entombed inside his own tortured body; he might as well have been buried alive.

Focus. He has to focus. He must have discipline. Kirk rips his flagging concentration away from contemplation of his pain, and starts reciting prime numbers, getting as far as 379 before another spasm hits him, when he switches to Fibonacci's sequence. The purity of the math helps calm him, and he moves on to military strategy, replaying historic battle sequences in his mind: Halmut's Gambit, the Astorvekkin'z'sh Maneuver, Archer's Feint. Soon he's chuckling over the mental images of witless Klingons pitted against fractious Romulans—and then agony sears through his body again, so hot he tastes it burning in the back of his throat. A scream clenches tight behind his teeth as his lungs heave for breath, his gibbering mind clawing desperately for the fragmented remains of his tactical musings. Slowly, the tremors of pain recede as he recites mathematical theorems, working through Euclidean geometry and moving on to astrophysics, regaining his control inch by struggling inch.

He's played forty-seven games of chess against himself by the time another negligent movement sets off the crashes of pain, barreling him under to leave him drained, panting and drenched in sweat. The Terran periodic table of the elements helps restore his focused peace of mind, but he only gets through twelve basic revenge scenarios before the suffering comes back for more, deeper and stronger, tearing his thoughts to shreds beneath the onslaught. As it fades slowly, the pain stabs back unexpectedly, and when he regains some semblance of mental command, he realizes he's been steadily moaning through the entire ordeal. Not that he can hear it. Thank god.

The amusement turns sharp, and Kirk's laughing, falling into a hysteria so alarming it's a relief when the next punch of pain hits him, working overtime on nerves pounded weak and soft. Kirk tries vainly to curl in on himself as the ever-present itch starts to ramp up again, making him tremble and curse as fire prickles along untold inches of his skin. He doesn't _think_ Spock would risk doing permanent damage to him... Impossibly it feels as if the heat is actually getting _worse_ , and Kirk concludes through his haze that it's because all the nerves and tissue are inflamed and sensitized now, like a piece of meat that's been thoroughly pummeled in preparation of being cooked. The cycle rebounds faster and faster, until he's left with nothing but the torture, seeking fruitlessly against his bonds for cessation, begging, crying to anyone who can hear him, no matter that he himself can't hear it. It feels like in apathy to his current condition the entire galaxy has been rendered deaf and blind as well, leaving him to burn for his mistakes. Then conscious thought recedes, fleeing before the advance of heat and pain, and though his sight is gone all Kirk can see is red, red, red. 

Eternity passes. Or maybe it's only a few hours, Kirk can't tell. But he becomes aware of something whispering over his face, barely touching him, and he can't think what it is (he can't think at all, thought does not exist, only the red and the burning and the itching). Then fingers settle over his face, and again Kirk moans, feeling the vibrations in his jaw as the fingertips trace gently over his cheekbones, a thumb caressing Kirk's chapped lips. 

"Please," Kirk blurts, and somewhere he registers shock that he can even form words any longer, "please make it stop please, please Spock please..." Two hands cup his face, holding it for a moment, and then Kirk feels them leave, and he cries out without thinking, grief at the abandonment swamping the part of his brain that can still think. No! God, no more—but the hands alight on his wrists moments later, and Kirk realizes distantly that he's being unbuckled. He sucks in a shaky breath as his wrists are freed, each one taken in a hot, dry hand and rubbed gently, massaging the tender skin, coaxing feeling back into them. Kirk brings his wrists up to his chest when Spock lets him go, folding his arms tightly against himself, shuddering. The hands go to his hips next, undoing the strap that holds them down. As if on cue, another spasm strikes him, and Kirk convulses helplessly against the table—but this time hands pin his hips to the table, stroking his flanks as one would a spooked animal until the worst of the convulsions have passed. A sob sticks in Kirk's throat as he feels the whisper of long hair against his bare skin, and seconds later feels a kiss pressed to one hip-bone. 

The hands go to his ankles next, unstrapping each one and massaging gently as they did at Kirk's wrists, helping him to fold each knee in turn, to bend and unbend it, returning the muscles to working order. Spock comes back to Kirk's head last, unsnapping the short length of chain that held Kirk's collared throat against the table, and when the arms slip under his legs and his back and pull Kirk against a strong chest, Kirk folds like a house of cards, moaning noiselessly. 

He's aware of warmth, Spock's Vulcan body heat enfolding him as Kirk is gathered against Spock's chest, Spock lifting him effortlessly off the table. Spock's robes are curiously soft, and Kirk turns his face blindly into Spock's shoulder, whimpering as every ache and pain in his body makes itself known. Distantly, he's aware of movement—he's being carried. He doesn't care. All Kirk knows is mute, primitive gratitude for the arms around him, a base animal desire for the torment to end. His pride is gone, melted away hours ago in the haze of his ordeal. Nothing exists outside of the arms of the man carrying him.

Spock shifts Kirk's weight against his chest, and then Spock is sitting, settling Kirk in his lap. Kirk shudders, curling against Spock's chest, fisting his hands in the material of Spock's robe. Fingers card through Kirk's sweaty hair, soothing him, grounding him in the real world again. Fingertips press against his face again, and suddenly Kirk is no longer alone in his head. The meld is shallow—Kirk's still aware of the burn licking and itching inside him—but the strong presence inside his head commands his attention now.

Thinking is hard. Spock seems to know this, somehow, and does not try to force anything difficult from him. A query comes instead: / /Enough, _tepul-fam'veh_?/ / The diminutive is felt, not said, and Kirk feels the soothing presence around him, inside him, Spock cradling him within and without. 

/ /Yes,/ / comes Kirk's response, a flush of helpless assent. No more no more no more. Spock does not reply, but Kirk can feel his master's satisfaction curl inside his mind, and a touch of reassurance as well. 

/ /Then speak./ / Pieces tumble back into place inside him, and Kirk feels one of the walls blocking him from the outside world fall away. He gasps, and this time he can _hear_ the air exiting his lungs and throat, the channel of sensory input unstoppered. 

Spock breaks the meld then, and Kirk moans out loud, the sound of his own voice in his ears making tears come to his eyes. "Shhhh," Spock murmurs, tilting Kirk's face back with both hands and kissing his eyes, gently swiping away the tears with the pad of one thumb. Kirk is still blind, still sightless, but he can feel and hear Spock now, and it's like coming out of a coma. "You will have relief soon. You must be patient for just a little while longer." 

"Okay," Kirk says shakily, glad for the moment that he's still blind. He doesn't think he could cope with the assault of sight on his over-loaded brain just now; he's too disoriented, too off-center. Distantly, in some hidden part of his mind that still registers some vague self-awareness, he knows that this is exactly what Spock wanted by locking him away in torment. And Spock got his wish, in spades.

Kirk tenses as Spock moves, hands clutching at the folds of Spock's robes. "I must stand you upright to remove the plug," Spock informs him, his voice low, reassuring. "Lean against me. I will not let you fall, _tepul-fam'veh._ " The Vulcan word hits Kirk's ears like a welcome splash of water, a pet name for him that Spock uses but rarely. Kirk nods, a fractional motion of his head, and then Spock shifts Kirk's weight in his arm, easing slowly out of the chair he's sitting in, simultaneously helping Kirk to put his feet on the ground until both of them are standing up, Kirk leaning heavily against Spock for support as his aching legs start to tremble. Spock's arm around his waist tightens, and when he buries his face in Spock's robes, Spock lets him do it, Spock's other hand sliding gently down Kirk's spine till he reaches the curve of Kirk's ass. 

On a normal night when Spock might choose to enjoy Kirk's body, Spock touches him like a coveted piece of property, fondling every exposed inch of skin and driving Kirk crazy with humiliation and lust. Not that Kirk makes it easy for him, ever, but it always ends the same, and they both know it. But now, Spock simply slides his fingers around the base of the plug, working it carefully out of Kirk's body, and Kirk feels that curtain of dark hair whisper against his face as Spock nuzzles Kirk's temple. When the heavy silicone toy finally eases all the way free, Kirk almost collapses again, and only Spock's arm around him keeps him from sliding to the floor. 

Spock picks him up within moments—God only knows what he did with the plug—and then Kirk is being carried again, which is fortunate because his ass and thigh muscles are currently seizing, trying hard to ease the itching and burning still going on inside him. Kirk moans incoherently as pain washes through him, intense enough that for a moment he almost thinks he's going to vomit. Then Spock lays him down on some cool, flat surface that feels vaguely like a bio-bed, and then eases something soft under the back of Kirk's head, and the nausea passes.

"You must remain motionless," Spock tells him, his hands sliding up and down Kirk's body in long, repetitive motions intended to calm the sweating, shuddering human laying prone before him. "I intend to ease your discomfort, _tepul-fam'veh_. Do you require restraints?"

It's not a threat, Kirk realizes after a moment of panic. It's an offer, but Kirk shakes his head, realizing dimly that he wants to prove his willingness to behave. Spock makes a noise of approval, and Kirk starts as Spock's mouth presses to his own in a brief, possessive kiss. Kirk moans, and Spock pulls away, one hand still planted firmly on Kirk's chest.

The next few minutes are as humiliating and yet welcome as anything in Kirk's entire life. Spock pushes his legs up, exposing his much-abused ass, and eases a tube into him, one hand holding Kirk's hips down as Kirk twitches helplessly, a groan of pain bubbling up from his throat. The shocking sensation of cold hits him as cool liquid fills his ass, and Kirk gasps, throwing his arm across his face as tears well in his eyes, the burning in his ass _finally_ easing. There must be something in the mixture aside from just water, but Kirk couldn't give less of a shit if it's Orion blood and Andorian lice, because the wretched burn that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his tormented muscles is finally melting away. The pain doesn't just disappear—the nerves are too inflamed for that—but the worst of the torture ceases, and Kirk realizes that the pathetic mewling noises he's hearing are coming from his own throat. Suddenly, he's glad of the fact that his vision is still gone, because he isn't sure he could cope what might be on Spock's face right now. It's easier to shut the world out like this, to pretend nothing is happening when he doesn't have to see anything.

Liquid continues to fill him, to the point where Kirk is starting to squirm in new discomfort, his guts bloating painfully. Finally it stops, and Spock removes the tube, followed immediately by what feels like the entirety of his insides emptying themselves out of Kirk's ass. Kirk suffers through it, grateful for the strong hands holding him in place, and finally he's just laying there, utterly spent. 

Kirk hears the sound of water running, and then Spock's hands are running over his body again, accompanied by a soft spray of water—Spock is washing him, Kirk realizes. That strikes him as hugely significant, and it's several muddled seconds of struggling to think why, when he finally remembers that Vulcans _hate_ water—that was the whole reason he got in trouble in the first place, wasn't it? But that's too hard to hold onto, and Kirk lets it go, submitting himself to Spock's ministrations. Hands that have struck him and held him down ruthlessly so many times are now as gentle and careful as a mother with a newborn, and yet again Kirk is glad of his lack of vision, glad to be able to just lie in darkness and accept. Spock washes every inch of him, paying special attention to his thighs and ass, pushing one leg up and then the other in order to clean him thoroughly.

He knows—distantly, as though observing a movie, or a play—that this tenderness is an aberration, a side-effect of the ordeal Spock just put him through, and normally Spock would never let himself appear so considerate in front of Kirk. Their sex is often twisted and dark, a cruel game of dominance and power, and it's rare for Spock to treat him so, like something precious and beloved instead of a toy he keeps around merely for his own amusement. It's rare, too, for Spock to punish him so severely, and for such a minor infraction... and furthermore (Kirk's sluggish mind proceeds slowly but relentlessly, heedless of the usual mental barriers he erects against these thoughts, barriers meant to keep out himself as much as Spock) Kirk would have thought Spock would be _pleased_ , to know that the threat of a female consort motivated Kirk to an act of jealous sabotage. 

Bad enough that Spock keeps him as a slave, taking what he likes from Kirk without consideration, and then ignoring him like an idle amusement he's grown bored with. Worse yet that he's brainwashing Kirk, or at least _trying_ to, slowly warping Kirk's mind during their melds; Kirk has no idea how many hours they've spent locked in bed together, Spock wrapped around him like a choking vine, fingers pressed to Kirk's temple as they struggle invisibly inside themselves. Kirk is no telepath, but he still resists, and while he has no real way of knowing the full extent of what Spock is doing to him, he's nevertheless aware of the erosion of his psyche—the inexplicable exhaustion he suffers at times, and the fact he can't seem to remember certain things, both in the recent and more distant past—particularly the period of time between confronting the newly-crowned Emperor Spock and finding himself in chains, a period of at least a week. And on top of all of this indignity, Spock has the gall to make Kirk stand by and watch while Spock picks another for his royal, official consort—and he actually expected Kirk to do nothing? But his over-reaction still doesn't make sense. There must be something he's missing. But no, he's giving Spock too much credit. 

Ridiculous. So... ridiculous... 

A slap to the ass makes Kirk yelp, jerking back to wakefulness. "Your lesson is not yet concluded, James." Spock's voice (and it's so strange to hear him speak when Kirk can't see his face, making everything much more intimate) is deep and full of dark purpose, and Kirk suffers another disconcerting flash of memory: Spock standing in the middle of Kirk's quarters back on Enterprise for the very last time, that dark, eloquent voice raised in a harsh shout and his true brown eyes subsumed with the black of his rage. Kirk had never seen his First Officer truly angered before, but as with so many things, Spock's first quarrel with his captain would also be his last. Of course, if Spock hadn't left Enterprise of his own volition, Kirk would still have had him removed...

Spock has paid him back with interest since then. Somehow, Kirk was betrayed, cornered, captured, and enslaved, and now he is utterly at Spock's mercy, blind and weak, trembling from reaction on some medical bed in the vastness of His Imperial Majesty's palace. Fate is strange, and cruel, Kirk thinks muzzily, but there's no bitterness to it—not right now, anyway. Twin desires have taken control of him for the time being, two halves of the same coin: a desire to please Spock, and a desire to avoid angering him further at all costs. Because the only thing more brutal than Spock's cruelty is his tenderness, and right now Kirk will do anything to avoid the one and give himself up to the other.

Spock is coaxing him to his feet again, and Kirk whines in the back of his throat, vague and painful thoughts of their past slipping away into comforting darkness. Kirk's groping hands find Spock's shoulders, and he manages (barely) to stay standing as Spock dries him off. Then Spock is pulling him close again, a thumb stroking lightly over his full lower lip, a hand cupping his face.

Kirk leans obediently into Spock's touch, letting Spock hold Kirk against his chest, warm robes and scented hair sliding against his skin as Spock wraps a possessive arm around him. Fingertips travel delicately over Kirk's neck and throat, caressing Kirk's collar, and when they brush again over Kirk's lips, Kirk kisses them, knowing by now exactly what Spock requires of him and more than willing to give it to him. Spock murmurs his approval, and Kirk feels fresh warmth flood him, this time of an entirely welcome sort. "Your current sweetness and docility is most pleasing," Spock says, his voice so low it's almost a growl, and Kirk shivers at the noise, something needy and primitive in the back of his mind uncurling in response.

Again Spock picks him up, Kirk curling against his chest and lashing his arms around Spock's neck, pressing his face to Spock's neck as he's carried—to the bed, as it turns out, Spock laying him gently down on it. Kirk feels a pang of anxiety as Spock's hands pull away, leaving him temporarily bereft, but he feels the bed sink beneath Spock's weight and moments later Spock is pulling Kirk into his lap, and Kirk gasps as he feels something hard and insistent pressing against his ass through Spock's robes.

"You disappoint me, James." The words are even, contemplative, warm for a Vulcan. "Your recent behavior has been highly problematic. I must procure special dispensation to compensate for the obscene amount of water you saw fit to waste with your immature prank. I trust, however, that repeating your punishment will not be necessary?"

"No," Kirk says, shocked at how husky his voice sounds in his own ears. It's only now that he remembers that he must have spent hours screaming himself hoarse—he just had no idea because he couldn't hear himself.

"Indeed?" Spock's voice darkens in satisfaction. "That is unfortunate. I find I enjoy how docile and well-behaved you are in your current state. Quite a contrast from your typical defiance." Kirk bites his lip, sighing as Spock's long, wicked fingers play over his naked skin. The worst of the shakes and tremors in his ass and thighs subsided while Spock was bathing him, but his body is still so sensitive, and Kirk suspects Spock has every intention of making use of that fact. And he's still blind. Kirk wonders vaguely what will come next—a beating, maybe? Or maybe Spock will have Kirk suck him off—but his brain has strained too hard for too long, and he gives it up after a moment. 

What he's _not_ expecting is the pressure of fingertips at his lips again, and the taste of something sweet and spicy on his tongue. "Eat, James," Spock says, and Kirk does, moaning at the taste. It's something like a chocolate truffle, rich and vaguely spiced, with an undertone of cinnamon or cardamom. Spock's fingers probe over his lips, Spock growling in his ear, and Kirk shudders in pleasure, the sensations shooting straight to his cock. Spock feeds him another piece after a moment, pressing his fingers past Kirk's candy-smeared lips as he does, finger-fucking Kirk's mouth after Kirk swallows his truffle. 

Kirk sucks wetly at those fingers, the obscene noises filling his ears, Spock's breath hot against the skin just below his ear as Spock bites at his neck, scraping teeth along sensitive skin to leave a mark. It's bliss, pure and sweet, and Kirk mewls happily, the noise garbled as Spock's fingers press against his teeth, his tongue. Far off, he feels the echo of warning, like a muted siren somewhere in the depths of his skull, but it has no urgency for him. Kirk isn't thinking that deeply; nothing exists for him right now except Spock, nothing matters except the heated body pressed to his.

"Do you wish me to restore your sight?" Spock's lips are pressed against the soft shell of Kirk's ear, sending a full-length shudder through him. Spock slides his hand along Kirk's thigh, wrapping fingers around Kirk's erection, squeezing it once, eliciting a gasp. "Are you ready to behave for me now, _tepul-fam'veh_?"

 _Oh,_ Kirk thinks dizzily, arching into the touches. "I'll do whatever you want," is what he says, or tries to; it comes out in a whisper, the words thick and hard to make out around Spock's fingers. Speaking is growing increasingly difficult in this warm, disconnected headspace Spock has put him into, and Kirk would like nothing more than to cease talking altogether, and cede what self-control remains to him to Spock. "I'll be good." 

"Mmm." Spock removes his hand, stroking it down along Kirk's side again and kissing over his jaw, his throat, the scrape of his teeth followed almost immediately by the shocking wet heat of his tongue. It never comes as less of a surprise, how rough Spock's tongue is against his skin, like sandpaper. Kirk wonders, not for the first time, whether Vulcans had felinoid ancestors. "Indeed. But will that be sufficient? My advisors demand that the perpetrator of this act be punished—they are calling for a public beating and execution, to demonstrate that my house will not tolerate defiance."

A rush of fear sweeps through Kirk at that. He's endured many things at Spock's hands, but never once has Spock permitted another to lay a finger on him, for any reason. Spock's aides fed and bathed him in the early weeks of his captivity, when his rage and pride prevented him from even considering behaving, but since then it has only ever been Spock who touches him. "I..." Kirk struggles to think, to force his mind to move, and it's like trying to swim in quicksand. 

Spock seems to sense his struggling, because he continues as if Kirk hadn't spoken. "You must demonstrate your understanding that you belong to me now," Spock says. "As my slave, you are under my protection. None may harm you without my consent. But your behavior indicates that you do not wish my protection. Perhaps I shall give you what you appear to desire, and denounce my claim to you. What cause have you given me to prevent them from punishing you as they see fit?" Spock's fingers stray up to Kirk's collar, fingering it thoughtfully.

Kirk swallows, anxiety swirling through him. Doesn't Spock want him? Oh god, would Spock really let him go? "No," he blurts, the fear of being set loose too much to bear. It's Spock's collar he's wearing; it was for Spock that he lay in darkness and silence for so long, enduring unbearable torture to make up for his transgression. Surely Spock wouldn't—he isn't— "No, I'm yours. You said so. Yours." 

"Is that so?" Spock's voice grows stern. "Say it again. To whom do you belong?"

"You. I belong to you." Kirk's pulse is hammering in his ears. The idea of abandonment is horrible, unthinkable—he can barely comprehend such a thing right now, much less the thought of Spock allowing him to be executed.

Something like triumph surges through Kirk's mind, Spock's fingers tightening against Kirk's throat, and Kirk realizes distantly that they must be very shallowly connected. No surprise, when Spock is touching so much of his naked skin. "Are you willing to prove it?"

"Yes!" Kirk tries to sit up, not even knowing what he's going to do, but Spock pulls him back down, biting his ear in reprimand, and Kirk moans, arching against Spock's body. 

"What reason have I to believe you?" Spock says darkly. Kirk feels himself deflate, despair replacing the rush of pleasure at having Spock's hands on him. _No—_ "You are a wicked creature who will say anything to avoid being punished. I had thought to teach you the error of your obstructive, deceitful ways, but I see now that it was a futile effort. You are clearly beyond redemption." 

"No! Please—" Kirk tries to sit up again, starting to panic a little now, and again Spock pulls him down, an arm tightening warningly across Kirk's waist. "Please," Kirk moans, starting to beg, "I'm yours, I want to be yours, I'll be good I'll be so good, please Spock..."

Kirk's cock twitches as arousal swamps his senses, some dark and vicious emotion flooding him that feels like _mine_ , and for a moment he's bewildered, but Spock's teeth against his neck quickly distract him again. "Perhaps I should permit you the opportunity to prove yourself," Spock muses, stroking fingers along Kirk's neck as the trapped slave arches pliantly. "As you seem so very eager." 

"Yes," gasps Kirk, and then Spock's fingers dig into his scalp, tilting Kirk's head back to expose more of his throat, and Spock's teeth sink into his skin, making Kirk's erection jump at the jolt of pain and pleasure that shoots down his spine. Spock worries a mark into existence, teeth scraping and working at the sensitive skin, making Kirk moan and shudder against the arms holding him pinned against Spock's chest.

"Very well." Spock's voice is muffled against Kirk's throat, fingers playing down along Kirk's bare shoulder, his collarbone, the muscles of his chest. And then suddenly he's moving, shifting with Kirk in his arms, and Kirk finds himself being carried across the room, clinging to Spock in bewilderment only to find himself being set down on the carpeted floor again. Spock presses his hands against Kirk's shoulders, and Kirk sinks instinctively to his knees, hands sliding against the leather of the high black boots Spock always wears. Spock strokes his fingers through Kirk's hair, a momentary caress that has Kirk turning his face blindly into Spock's touch, and then Spock stands back, leaving Kirk to catch his own balance, bereft of sight and touch on his hands and knees. 

"You will crawl to me," Spock says clearly, sounding still nearby, calming Kirk's immediate fear of being left to grope blindly in the room by himself. "You will follow the sound of my voice, and when you have reached me you will kiss each of my boots and beg to clean them with your mouth."

Kirk leans forward, trying to orient himself towards the direction Spock's voice seems to be coming from. He's terrified, and he has just enough presence of mind left to be humiliated at the idea of crawling around like this, much less _licking Spock's boots clean_ , but far worse is the idea of abandonment. Spock has ripped open an old, painful scar, reducing Kirk to a small and heartbroken child, struggling to overcome the betrayal of both mother and father, and then finally his brother. _Don't leave me,_ begs the small voice in the back of his head, the one he'd tried to strangle lifeless so many times, and indeed he'd succeeded... until Spock had come along and pulled him open again, exposing all those things he'd buried so deeply inside himself.

"Come here, James." Kirk falls forward on his palms, crawling slowly and hesitantly in the direction of Spock's voice. His muscles ache and his sense of balance is fucked from his long ordeal, and it's lucky he's already down on all fours because he would surely have fallen if he'd tried to walk. Spock continues to talk, telling him how gorgeous he looks like this, how natural he is on his hands and knees, giving him a constant frame of reference to move towards. A hand on his head stops him abruptly, and Kirk sits back on his calves, his face burning from humiliation. It's a frustrating paradox that for all the verbal abuse Kirk subjected Spock to, the Vulcan never returns it in kind; he prefers to rob Kirk of his dignity in other ways, but sometimes Kirk thinks it would be easier to maintain his sense of self if Spock didn't find a way to make this feel so good. 

"You have done well." Spock's hair brushes against Kirk's face as Spock leans down to caress the top of Kirk's head, and Kirk feels his stomach tighten at the praise. Slowly, he leans down and kisses each of Spock's boots, one at a time, being careful not to bump his nose. Then he straightens up, kneeling in front of Spock and leaning against him for balance, Spock's hand stroking gently against Kirk's temple. Kirk hesitates, but Spock says nothing, and Kirk knows he's waiting for Kirk to do as he's been told.

"Please," Kirk manages, glad for the umpteenth time that he's temporarily blind, because somehow it makes it easier to not think about what he's doing, "please, let me—let me clean your boots, Spock. Let me lick them clean." His words are shaky and hoarse in his own ears, his voice almost unrecognizable, and he squeezes his eyes shut, as if it makes a difference. 

"Permission granted." Spock's hand goes to the back of Kirk's skull, pressing Kirk's face against his groin, and Kirk moans as he feels the hard, heated lump of Spock's arousal through his master's pants. He nuzzles blindly against it, mouthing it wetly through the linen of Spock's trousers, and Kirk feels Spock shudder before his face is pushed rather violently away, shoving him down on all fours again. 

Kirk arches, catlike, an animal in heat, dizzy with the knowledge of Spock's arousal for him, like something has switched over in his head. He drops his face to Spock's boot-level again, and he's blind, utterly blind—everything is sensation and impulse, heat and lust and something fearfully like love. Repercussions will come later; now nothing exists but this moment. He can feel Spock's lust for him inside his head, mingling with his own, and Kirk has just the scant amount of intelligence left to understand that even though his sight is crippled at the moment, his strengthened connection to Spock is giving him something like double vision. Or maybe it's just his hypersensitive awareness of both their bodies, but regardless, he moves unerringly to lick at Spock's boot, and sees himself with Spock's eyes.

He's naked. Not just unclothed, but aroused and vulnerable and exposed save for the triple-ringed collar around his throat, and instead of a shameful thing he wears it like the sacred ornament of a priest. His skin is gold, tanned from Eridani's fierce light, his blond hair a sweaty mess, and he crouches at Spock's feet with his ass in the air, pink tongue lapping wet and obscene over the dark leather of Spock's boots. 

Spock _growls_ then, and the shock of it goes right to Kirk's cock, arousal tightening his guts like an invisible hand. Kirk licks and licks at the musty leather, vaguely disgusted by the taste of dirt and grime and, underneath that, the darker taste of cured animal-hide. Spock pulls his foot away after Kirk has made it as far as Spock's ankle, and then Kirk moves obediently to the other foot, his mouth already starting to feel parched and filthy from the first. By the time he's done, Kirk is fully, achingly hard, and his mouth feels like a garbage bin, but the way Spock hauls him up by the collar and into his arms is more than worth it. 

Kirk's arms go around Spock's shoulders, and Spock's hands are moving over Kirk's bare skin now, considerably more aggressive than they were before, and Kirk can feel that eager erection through Spock's trousers, pressing against Kirk's naked hip. "Do you require water?" Spock asks in a voice that's just barely civilized, his lips moving against Kirk's ears, and Kirk moans, nodding mutely. 

There's a confusing shuffle of movement then, as Spock maneuvers him around, but Kirk has attention only for the man in his arms, glued to his side as though separation means certain death. And Spock seems disinclined to let him go, either. Kirk drinks greedily when Spock presses a beaker of water to his mouth, and he's glad for the faint bite, the herbal undertones that water on Vulcan invariably has, for it washes away the grime on his tongue. Then the water is gone and Spock is kissing him, arms locked around him, and Kirk is kissing back for all he's worth, his mouth open, sucking greedily at Spock's tongue, seeking his heat, his answering need. Spock bites his mouth, drawing a little blood, and Kirk groans, flattening himself against Spock's chest as though it were possible to melt into him. Kirk cards his fingers through Spock's hair, and it doesn't matter that he once would have died before ever permitting himself to show such unrestrained desire as this. He's hard, his cock aching, weeping pearly drops of pre-come from the slit, but even that pales in comparison to the electricity of Spock inside his head and Spock's hands on his body. Somewhere in the whirl of his dazed mind, he registers that he should be in more pain than this, and wonders if Spock is blocking some of his pain-receptors as well, but it's hard to care too much.

Spock pulls away after a moment, restraining himself with an effort, gripping Kirk's jaw in one hand to keep him from following after to try and keep kissing him, the other arm still curled tightly around Kirk's waist. "Wicked creature," Spock murmurs, and the hoarseness in that deep voice makes Kirk shudder with longing. He wishes vaguely that he could see, wondering how Spock might look right now—whether that heavy black hair is still perfect, or if it's in disarray; if Spock's face is as impassive as ever, or whether there might be a tell-tale flush of green in his cheeks and ears. But Spock will give him back his sight when he sees fit, and not before.

Spock takes a deep breath. If Kirk weren't so lit up, he would be marveling at how frayed the edges of Spock's self-control have become. "Very well, _tepul-fam'veh_. You have demonstrated admirable eagerness to obey my orders, but I remain unconvinced of your desire to truly behave." Spock releases Kirk's jaw, stroking his fingertips over Kirk's features, tracing the contours of his full, kiss-swollen lips. Kirk catches hold of Spock's wrist in both his hands, bringing each finger to his mouth and kissing them in turn, reveling in how Spock lets him do it and how it makes Spock shudder. He knows that they made a turn at some point, that this isn't precisely how Spock wanted this to go, but he hardly cares.

"Let me convince you," Kirk whispers, and he gets another flash of himself from behind Spock's eyes: his own face, flushed and open with arousal, his eyes a startling blue, the pupils blown wide in a vain attempt to gather enough light to see. Spock nods, and Kirk is dropping to his knees before he has time to wonder how he could even tell Spock moved, and then he just keeps going because it doesn't matter anyway.

Kirk nuzzles at Spock's groin, Spock's hands going to the back of Kirk's head, not directing, just to keep contact. Kirk has a few moments of trouble trying to work Spock's pants open through touch alone, but then he pulls Spock's hard prick free, and Kirk moans open-mouthed simultaneously with Spock, pressing his cheek to the scalding, velvet-soft skin of Spock's erection. Spock's hands tighten on his head, the fingers of one tight in Kirk's hair, the other gripping the back of his neck, and Kirk purrs in the back of his throat as he licks at the very tip of Spock's penis, flattening his tongue over the flared mushroom head, tasting Spock's arousal. He feels Spock's repressed groan, echoing like an after-image on his mental retina, and then he opens his mouth and takes Spock in.

Blind as he is, Kirk finds himself ultra-aware of every inch of Spock's erection in his mouth—the contours of the alien double ridges, the musty taste of his sex, the astonishing heat of his body. Kirk suckles just the head for a moment, working it like a lollipop, enjoying the weight of it against his tongue as Spock's fingers dig hard into his scalp. Normally, Kirk would do this only under duress, but now he can barely restrain his own moans as he slowly bobs his head on Spock's prick, taking more of him into his mouth each time. Finally Spock's swollen erection is buried in Kirk's mouth, Kirk's eyes watering at the way the flat head is pressing at the back of his throat, making him work to suppress his gag reflex. He presses his tongue flat against the big vein that runs along the underside of the engorged cock, then tightens the muscles of his jaw, trying to suck. Spock presses one hand to the back of Kirk's head again, forcing him down a little further, making him cough and gag, and then Kirk feels the fingers of Spock's other hand sliding over Kirk's face, feeling the shape of Kirk's lips stretched wide around Spock's sex. For a Vulcan it's a particularly exquisite form of masturbation, and Kirk moans as Spock starts to thrust, that one hand at the back of Kirk's head holding him tightly still as Spock leisurely fucks Kirk's mouth. 

It's torture, so good and hot that Kirk thinks he might come just from having Spock in his mouth. The hand that isn't gripping Spock's hip for balance reaches down to fondle his own aching erection, stroking himself slowly as tears leak down his face. Spock growls, his thrusts coming faster now as he nears his climax, and almost without warning he pulls out, striping hot, sticky ropes across Kirk's face and mouth. Some lingering shred of self-control makes Kirk grab himself to keep from going off without permission, his thighs shuddering at the strain. Kirk swallows, moaning in shock and arousal at the feel of Spock's spend on his skin, heat flooding his cheeks in reaction. Suddenly, he's bereft, Spock's hands gone from his body.

"When," comes Spock's voice, low and silky and _dangerous_ , "did I grant you permission to touch yourself, James?" Kirk swallows painfully, freezing, realizing his mistake too late, but Spock is already moving. Kirk finds himself hauled upright, Spock man-handling him as he likes without further explanation, and without his sight it's all Kirk can do to not fall over, dizzy with vertigo. Then he finds himself being pushed facedown over Spock's lap, his aching erection rubbing maddeningly against Spock's thigh. A hard slap to his still-tender ass rips a shriek from him, Kirk's whole body tensing, and then he sags with a low moan as the hand stays put, rubbing at the spot just struck, Spock's fingers working possessively at the flesh of Kirk's buttock. Kirk can only moan, still reeling from the shock of having Spock come on his face, a few steps behind the power-curve.

"You are mine," Spock says, and at the covetous note in his voice Kirk feels the knot of fear in his stomach unclench a bit. "Every molecule of your being is mine. Before you may touch what is mine, you must have my permission, and only then may you lay hands on yourself. Every part, your pleasure, your pain... it all belongs to me, James." The hand gently rubbing his ass suddenly comes down hard again, spanking Kirk soundly, this time on the other cheek, and Kirk yelps, his cock twitching in sympathy at the heat that floods his face. Spock continues to spank him, striking his ass again and again, Kirk writhing and trembling against Spock's lap as Spock holds him firmly in place with a hand on the back of his neck. 

The pain in his ass, which Spock temporarily induced him to forget, comes roaring once more to the front of his attention as Spock gives him some serious bruises to go with the ache of inflamed tissue. It isn't long before Kirk is sobbing and whimpering under the assault, his face burning with lust and pain and shocking, all-consuming pleasure. Spock stops as abruptly as he started, his hand settling against Kirk's ass again, rubbing soothingly against the tender flesh, but the burn has settled deeper, suffusing his entire body now. 

Kirk sucks in a ragged breath, and before he even has time to wonder what's next, he's hauled up again to straddle Spock's lap, groping for something to balance against and grabbing hold of Spock's robes. Kirk feels an arm slither around his waist, and he's very aware of his own aching erection, and of the fact that Spock is still hard, pressing against him through the material of his trousers—he must have tucked himself back into his pants, Kirk thinks. He's light-headed now, dizzy from everything Spock's put him through, trembling lightly from the pain in his much-abused ass. He starts slightly when he feels something cold and wet touch his face, until he realizes it's a towel—he'd almost forgotten about the semen drying on his skin, miraculously, during the spanking. 

He holds still as Spock wipes him off with the wet wash-cloth, then waits for what's coming next, fisting his hands anxiously in the material of Spock's robes. After all he's been put through and how far down his conscious mind has sunk, his only wish right now is for Spock to fuck him hard enough to make him scream. Fingers come back to ghost over his face, tracing a cheekbone, and then slide back through his hair to grip his skull, pulling him in for a kiss that's more teeth than tongue, the arm around his waist tightening. Kirk's response is instinctive, arching against Spock's hands and body, opening himself to Spock with a moan. 

Spock takes a moment to find his voice, even as his hands roam over Kirk's body, one sliding down now to cup one ass-cheek firmly, the fingertips pressing into tender flesh, making Kirk gasp. "Should you desire something, _tepul-fam'veh_ , you must ask me for it," Spock says finally, his voice rough at the edges and gritty, as though it's difficult to talk. "I give you permission to make your request." 

"Fuck me," Kirk blurts. He leans in, sliding his arms around Spock's neck again, and it's strange that Spock is permitting him so much contact, so much liberty to cling like he is, but he's too out of it to consider the implications. "Please, I want you to fuck me, Spock!"

Spock stills, going silent, the hands on Kirk's body tightening. "Do you," Spock says, and Kirk's cock jerks at the growl in that voice. There's a pause, during which Kirk feels Spock's hand moving carefully back around to Kirk's face, fingers settling into a familiar position at Kirk's temple and jaw. "I do not believe you. I feel you are saying this because you believe I wish to hear it. You seek to escape further punishment." 

"No!" Kirk cries. It does not even occur to him that Spock might simply want to hear him beg. "No, please Spock, I _want_ it, I need you to fuck me—please, please believe me, I need it so bad—" And then Spock throws open their link, and Kirk goes under in a rush. 

It happens much more quickly this time—perhaps because Kirk's not expecting it, or perhaps simply because Spock doesn't want to waste any time. Regardless, even as he's swallowed by the darkness that always comes when Spock rolls his mind, Kirk can already feel himself being pulled out of the meld, rushing towards a strangely bright surface and bursting through without warning. Instinctively, his eyes open, all his muscles tightening—and Kirk almost screams, because suddenly his sight has returned, and the world exists once more.

Spock is kissing him before he can panic, strong arms holding him fast, and Kirk's frightened, messy noises are lost into Spock's mouth. Kirk shuts his eyes again and focuses on that kiss, giving his disordered brain a moment to play catch-up, to sort through the images once more being sent it by the rods and cones in his eyes. When Spock pushes him back again, holding him not quite at arm's length, Kirk finally opens his eyes to see the face of the man who's become his whole world. 

Spock is staring at him, his eyes black pools, his perfect Vulcan control almost gone, his face like a statue carved from living stone. And most people might not be able to tell, but Kirk can, and it isn't just the green flush of his skin, or the very slight tremor in the hands that are holding him; it's something in those fathomless eyes that Kirk almost never gets to see, something so strange and compelling he can't even rightly identify it now. 

"Say it again." The words are deathly quiet. There is an aggrieved note in Spock's voice that Kirk does not understand. Spock has been running this entire show from the first moment he walked into the room. Hasn't he?

Kirk takes a deep breath, staring back into that cruel, endlessly beautiful face. Later, this is the moment that will stand out to him most clearly, the part of the conversation that will replay over and over in his head—their words, and the sight of Spock's face, as if he'd never seen it before, or Spock had never truly shown himself to Kirk until now. "I need—" _I need you to fuck me._ His jaw tightens, and he's filled with the sudden desire to banish that doubt from Spock's voice and eyes. "I need you," he says instead, and watches Spock's face change. "Please." 

Spock stares at him, some nameless emotion struggling to make itself known on his face, and for a moment Kirk wonders if Spock is really about to kill him, or storm out of the room. Instead, he pulls Kirk to him and crushes their mouths together, and Kirk dissolves with a moan, lashing an arm around Spock's shoulders again and pressing close for dear life. Spock kisses him hard enough to steal all his breath, holding Kirk against his chest with one arm wrapped around his waist, and Kirk is so distracted he doesn't even realize that Spock is doing anything else until he feels the blunt, slicked head of Spock's erection pressing against his pucker as Spock settles him down onto his cock. With a moan Kirk slides down on it, letting Spock fill him like he's been craving, tears prickling in his eyes at the burn in his muscles and his channel.

Hands on his hips push Kirk down until his thighs are flush against Spock's lap, his ass stuffed full of Spock's prick, the head pushing against his prostate, and then Spock thrusts up into him, rocking in yet deeper as his fingertips dig crescent-shaped welts into Kirk's hips, making him cry out. It's exquisitely painful, the muscles of his ass still too tender from the capsaicin oil for anything like this, and the shocking heat of Spock's erection just adds to the overstimulation. And it's exactly what Kirk wants. It's like a flare has gone off inside him, and nothing resembling reason or clear thinking will return until it's burnt itself out.

Spock growls at him, something harsh and guttural that scrapes over his skin like asphalt. Kirk doesn't need to speak Vulcan to recognize that he's being claimed; the frightening heat in Spock's eyes says it all. And not even having worn Spock's collar for months now feels as real or permanent as this, as though Spock has just etched his mark into Kirk's skin and bones, and if Kirk had any of presence of mind left at all he'd be scared shitless, or fucking pissed, or _something_ , but instead he just gasps, throwing his head back and rolling his hips down against the cock buried in his ass. 

"They tried to take you from me," Spock grates out, his breath scalding against Kirk's ear, hands digging into Kirk's hip and shoulder with bruising force, his control burnt up with the heat that's sparked between them. "Had I not returned to keep watch over you when I did, I would have found you dead—" Spock cuts himself off with a snarl, snapping his hips up against Kirk's ass, making Kirk choke on his own cry, and Kirk suffers a sudden spasm of transferred memory: his own prone body, bound and writhing miserably on the bio-bed, and directly before him a Vulcan forced to his knees, eyes bulging in terror as a pair of hands ( _Spock's_ hands) force the traitor's mouth open and pour the contents of a broken hypodermic needle down his throat. The violence of the image is nothing compared to the cataclysmic rage that accompanies it, and though it's snatched away almost instantly, it leaves Kirk shaking, clutching at Spock in stunned reaction, wholly unable to process.

Then Spock starts to fuck him, sliding his hands down along Kirk's hips to grip his ass and hold him in place as he sets up a rhythm, destroying what remains of Kirk's ability to think before he can appreciate what he's just been told. Kirk braces his hands on Spock's chest as he tries to move with Spock anyway, noises hitching in his throat each time Spock slams up into him, jolting up his spine. He shuts his eyes for a moment, only to have them fly open again in shock as Spock shakes him, biting Kirk's throat savagely, teeth scraping over his Adam's apple just above his collar. " _Stay,_ " Spock hisses, gripping the back of Kirk's skull, crushing him close again. Kirk moans helplessly as his cock is trapped between their abdomens, the rough friction of Spock's robes making him shudder. There's no way he's going to last, no matter how he tries; he's been riding the edge too long. 

"Spock," he chokes, and Spock seems to understand, because moments later a hand snakes between them and starts to roughly stroke Kirk's prick—once, twice, three times as Spock snaps his hips up against Kirk's ass again, skin meeting skin with a wet _slap_. Kirk's climax hits him exactly like a wall of water, breaking over him hard and fast, all his muscles seizing up at once, right before it all collapses and takes him down with it. Spock fucks him through it, eating him up as he breaks apart, spilling against Spock's stomach and gasping for air. 

Kirk loses himself a little then, sagging against Spock, his fragmented consciousness seeping out at the edges. The next thing he's aware of is Spock spreading him out boneless on the bed, bending over him—he's on his back now, when did _that_ happen—folding him easily in two, hooking Kirk's legs over his shoulders. Spock is naked now, and still hard, and Kirk has just enough time to register how fucking gorgeous Spock is before Spock sinks into him again, balls-deep and _hot_ , fuck. Even as Kirk is choking on his own tongue Spock is leaning over him and pinning him, not his wrists this time but his hands, lacing their fingers together. 

"Please," Kirk whispers, not knowing what he's asking for, only that he has to have it or he'll die. Spock kisses him in answer, and starts to move, and Kirk's exhausted mind can just barely register that Spock has never taken him like this, never touched him like this, before it gives up and finally shuts off at long last. So there's nothing left to keep Kirk from moaning and sobbing Spock's name, to gasp as though blind again at the way Spock keeps sinking his teeth into Kirk's skin, to tangle his hands in Spock's long hair and beg him for more. And there's no one home to keep track of how long they go like that, wrapped up together in sweat-stained sheets, before Spock presses his fingers to Kirk's temple and drowns them deep inside each other. 

The next morning will find their unexpected truce gone as if it had never happened; Kirk will wake to an empty bed, and it will not take him long to convince himself that whatever he might have seen in Spock's eyes was not there, and that he does not care even if it was, because it was all bullshit induced in him by Spock's mind-games. Never mind the fact that it seems Spock punished _Kirk_ because some goddamn Vulcan took it upon himself to try to kill Kirk while _Spock_ had him laid out helpless. And in the days and weeks that follow, Spock will take great pains to remind Kirk that he is just a slave, and that he will be treated as such, and Vulcans do not care for their slaves any more than they might care for a particularly valuable piece of livestock. He does such a good job that they both almost believe it—almost. Months later, Kirk will lie in bed in the belly of a stolen space-ship, staring at the ceiling, and he'll remember this night, and he'll tell himself it meant nothing, that it was just Spock fucking with his mind.

But when they finally collapse, gasping for air and tangled inextricably together, impossible to tell where one lets off and the other begins, Kirk is thinking nothing of the sort. He's speechless with reaction, struck dumb all over again, fumbling to kiss Spock in lieu of words, and Spock cradles him against his chest as though he were the most precious thing in the universe. For a few minutes he can only lay there, stroking Spock's face, the other hand twined tightly with Spock's, too dazed to even register his own situation. Then something hits him.

"I _felt_ it when the guard tried to kill me," he blurts, suddenly remembering the strange sense of movement he'd experienced at one point during his ordeal, as though someone was very close by his unseeing body. "Jesus fucking Christ, Spock, he was that close—"

" _Kroykah, klashau-veh._ " Spock cuts him off, the Vulcan words washing over him, settling him. "You are safe; I will protect you. Be at peace, _k'diwa._ " Kirk takes a deep breath, then lets it out slow, and finds he has absolutely nothing to say that can't wait till later. So he says nothing at all, and simply curls against Spock, taking mute comfort in the warmth of his body. 

They fall asleep like that, Spock pressed up against Kirk from behind, holding him tight against Spock's chest, Spock's face pressed to the back of Kirk's head, their fingers laced together and hands resting against Kirk's stomach. And the very last thing that Kirk is aware of is being afraid to fall asleep, despite his overwhelming exhaustion. But a promise fills his mind, a sense of security and safety, and devotion so bottomless that it leaves him weak. 

Then sleep takes him, and he knows nothing more.

**Author's Note:**

>  **kroykah** Stop immediately  
>  **tepul-fam'veh** Vulcan colloquialism that translates roughly in English to "pet" or "weakling" and has strong implications that the named object/person is under the speaker's power. (Author's invention)  
>  **k'diwa** shortened form of address for beings who are each other's k'hat'n'dlawa; equated to the Terran term 'beloved' (Note: **k'hat'n'dlawa** is a term that means: one who is 'half of my heart and soul' in its deepest sense; became unfashionable after Reformation because of its emotional connotation (anc.))  
>  **klashau-veh** Vulcan colloquialism that means approximately "one under my protection"; antiquated term from before Surak's reforms. (Author's invention)


End file.
